


The Prince Of Krowpow Castle

by Switchbladekid



Category: Tintin
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 07:41:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4779086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Switchbladekid/pseuds/Switchbladekid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tintin never intended to linger in Syldavia, until the King offered him his heart's desire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Prince Of Krowpow Castle

THE PRINCE OF KROWPOW CASTLE

 

Nine massive chandeliers lit the Throne Room, ring upon ring of crystals rotating like captive galaxies above the heads of the crowd. The light caught the flash of a diamond here, the sparkle of a ruby there before shining at last on the solid gold Scepter Of Ottokar. 

It lay, reassuringly heavy, across the knees of His Majesty Muskar XII, and it was all thanks to Tintin. Ironic, the King thought, how that small figure in plain brown broadcloth stood out amid the blaze of bejeweled courtiers. 

"We'll have to do something about his clothes," Queen Geraldine said, very softly. Her tone wasn't at all unkind, rather that of someone putting together a to-do list. 

"All taken care of, my dear." Muskar reached for her hand, his gaze still on Tintin. In fact, the King had already issued a number of very specific instructions, not all of which concerned things sartorial. "You must admit, he carries himself well. If I didn’t know better I would think that he was indeed of noble blood.” 

"You're besotted," Her Majesty said fondly. "But he is an extraordinary boy and the people are wild about him." Earlier that same evening the King had insisted that Tintin join him on the balcony. It was standing room only in the courtyard below, and the crowd cheered their sovereign and his newly minted knight with equal gusto. 

At the moment Tintin himself was feeling suffocated. The crush of guests eager to congratulate him had raised the Throne Room’s temperature to that of a hothouse. Liveried servants circulated with trays of Champagne but he dared not drink any. 

Cannon fire had awakened him at dawn, hard on the heels of two days and nights spent chasing down the stolen Scepter. He’d hijacked a Bordurian jet only to have it shot out of the sky, forcing him to tramp back to Klow on foot. It was an effort to keep his eyes open and his smile in place. Alcohol was the last thing he needed. 

A barrel-chested Count Something-Or-Other congratulated him with an overly hearty thump on the back. A dowager whose breeding and advanced age apparently freed her from observing the social conventions pinched his cheek, loudly proclaiming him to be "such a brave little fellow!” 

“Ahem!” Tintin turned to find Thomson and Thompson, resplendent in what they obviously imagined to be appropriate court dress. And really, Tintin thought, who was he to point out that white powdered wigs and blue satin breeches had gone out of fashion a hundred years before? 

"You know of course, that some of Colonel Boris’ men are still at large?" Thomson said in a stage whisper. 

Tintin knew an opportunity when it presented itself. "No! You don't say? You'd better tell me more, but first let's find someplace a little more private." He linked his arms in theirs, guiding all three of them towards the nearest exit. 

"The King has charged us with going through his records and hunting down every last accomplice," Thompson confided as they headed for the hallway. Both detectives, Tintin noted, averted their eyes from the chandelier they’d pulled down with their ever-present sticks. Men with brooms were still busily sweeping up the glass. 

"And have you caught anyone?" Outside the Throne Room the air was easily five degrees cooler, refreshing him somewhat. 

"Oh yes, several," Thomson responded. "I mean, that is--"

"Not a one." Thompson finished for him. "They seem to have gone to ground, but we don’t have a clue where. Tintin, are you feeling all right?"

“Perhaps a little tired,” Tintin said, with characteristic understatement. He wondered if he dared go to bed. He glanced at his wristwatch, discovering to his consternation that it was barely nine o'clock. Far too early to abandon a reception that was, after all, for him. "I'll leave you to it, then." 

He took two or three deep breaths, squared his shoulders and prepared to face the crowd again. It was then that he heard, "Psssttt! Sir Tintin! Up here!" 

The voice came from above, where branching staircases met in a landing that led to the Royal Family's private apartments. Crouching behind the marble balustrade was a boy of five or six. 

"Well, hello there." Tintin climbed the stairs to meet him. He wore a handsome sailor suit whose collar had once been snow white but that was now stained with juice and dusty with crumbs. "And who are you?"

"Josef. I live here. Come see." Unselfconsciously he seized Tintin by the hand, pulling him down the corridor and through an impressive set of double doors. Tintin whistled. The ceilings were high, the walls decorated with paintings of generations of Syldavian royalty. The couch was a vast 18th century masterpiece, gilded and scrolled and upholstered in plum-colored velvet. 

But the room's most outstanding feature was the number of toys. Tintin found himself facing a superb rocking horse with what looked to be a real horsehair mane and tail. Three or four brilliantly lithographed tin spaceships dangled from the ceiling. Shelves held armies of realistically painted lead soldiers, cowboys and red Indians. 

But by far the most commanding thing in the room was a huge circular table supporting a miniature Syldavian countryside, through which traveled an elaborate set of electric trains. A plate containing a half-eaten pastry, evidently the source of the stains on Josef’s collar, was balanced atop a realistic toy station. 

"Look!" Josef toggled a switch, bringing the train to a stop. He unhitched one of the cars. Its top was hinged. Josef opened it up and handed it to Tintin. The inside was a perfect replica of a dining car, complete with miniature tables, each with its own tiny chairs and stiff white tablecloth. 

"Oh! " Tintin had never seen, let alone possessed, such wonderful playthings. He found himself wondering just how fast the train could go, and if another five minutes away from the reception would really make much of a difference. Good manners won out and he reluctantly handed the dining car back. 

"Josef, I hate to go, I really do but--" 

Josef collapsed. One second he was upright, the next he was on his back, eyes rolling until they showed nothing but the whites. He convulsed. His head beat a rat-a-tat-tat on the floor.

Epilepsy. Tintin barely registered the thought. He was already moving, whipping off his jacket, balling it up and shoving it under Josef's head. The boy's skin had gone alarmingly pale. Tintin jammed his fingers into Josef's mouth, holding down his tongue to keep him from swallowing it. "Help! HELP!" 

A young woman threw open the doors. Then she was kneeling beside Tintin, extracting his fingers and shoving an unsharpened pencil between the boy's teeth. Josef's heels drummed one final time and then, just like that, he lay still. His eyes regained their focus and he looked, a trifle dazedly, from Tintin to the woman. 

"Home again, home again, jiggedy-jig," she crooned. She turned to Tintin, showing him porcelain skin and a pair of sleepy, Garbo-esque eyes. Her movements were matter-of-fact, even languid, suggesting that she had done this all before. "It's all right. He'll be fine in a couple of minutes." 

Tintin took a seat on the couch, feeling something akin to awe. It was the first time he could remember being this close to someone so breathtakingly beautiful. He'd once mistakenly "rescued" a film actress from the men who appeared to be attacking her but this woman, with her jet-black hair and smoky eyes, was far more striking. "Is he your son?" 

She raised an eyebrow at that. "Oh, no." She lifted Josef under the arms, depositing him on the couch next to Tintin. "I'm merely his nanny. Prince Josef belongs to Their Majesties."

"Oh." So he'd been hob knobbing with a child of the blood royal. Well, it wasn't the first time. The little prince leaned into him, closing his eyes. Tintin laid an arm across his shoulders, noting that the color seemed to be returning to his cheeks. They sat in companionable silence as the nanny crossed to the telephone and made a call, presumably to the Throne Room. 

That plum-colored couch was every bit as soft as it looked. Dimly he heard the nanny asking for the Lord Chancellor. His jacket, he realized, was still crumpled on the floor. He’d better get up and shake it out before the wrinkles would take hold. 

He yawned. He would do that in just a minute. Or two. He yawned again. 

He awakened to a rocking motion and the click of boot heels on marble floors. His head was pillowed on a silken shoulder, his nose mere inches from an impressive array of medals. They looked vaguely familiar, as did the jacket to which they were pinned. It was then that he realized he was being carried, and by no less a personage than the King himself. 

"Your Majesty!"

Muskar grinned down at him. "It wasn't my intent to wake you, my boy." 

The King made no move to put him down, and Tintin wondered if he dare ask. "I'm terribly sorry, Your Majesty. About the reception. I did mean to return . . . “

"Tintin, Tintin, I hardly think apologies are necessary, considering what you've done for me. And for Josef. Ah, we're here." "Here" was the same immense bedchamber in which Tintin had awakened that morning. A new pair of silken pajamas were laid across the vast bed. A fire had been lit and Snowy lay basking in the heat. He raised his chin and gave a welcoming, rrrou-ourrr before putting his head back down.

The clock read midnight. He'd slept for close to three hours. The King set him on his feet, keeping a hand on his shoulder and steering him gently towards the two high backed armchairs that sat before the fire. "Since you are awake, will you spare me half an hour before you retire for the night?"

"Of course, Your Majesty." 

The King took the chair opposite him. "Good. I hope you will forgive me, but I had my Lord Chancellor look into your background." 

"There's nothing to forgive, Majesty. I imagine it would be awkward if you knighted a mad bomber or an ax murderer." 

"Or an anarchist, eh?" Muskar fell silent. The flames sank lower, their light receding from the King's face and leaving it in shadow. Quietly, he resumed the conversation. "Josef's seizures began two years ago. His condition renders him unfit to inherit the throne, even if he survives to adulthood."

Tintin was shocked into silence. Even. If. Such devastating words when applied to the little boy in the stained sailor suit, so happy to show off his electric trains. 

"The Queen and I, we can have no more children." Muskar's face was still shadowed. "And if Josef were to die, I'm not sure we would have the heart. But we are not private citizens, answerable only to ourselves." 

Of course not, Tintin thought. Josef's death would throw the succession into question, all but begging Borduria to attempt another coup. 

"I do have a . . . relative,” the King continued, with a grimace of what looked, fleetingly, like distaste. “Katriot. But his various excesses . . . Well, let us just say that he can't rule his own passions, let alone a country. That is why, after the Queen and I had recovered somewhat after hearing Josef's diagnosis, we began to discuss adoption." 

"But surely an adopted child couldn't succeed to the throne, Sire. Not if he wasn't of royal blood."

"Oh yes, Syldavia's laws are quite progressive in that regard." With those last words, Muskar's tone changed. There was a wistfulness to it, a plea yet to be voiced. "The problem has always been finding a child who might someday be fit to rule. A child of whom the people would approve . . . and one whom we could love."

Now Muskar looked him full in the face. "Tintin, the inquiries into your background were not for the reason you suppose, but to discover if . . . Well, my Lord Chancellor tells me that you are quite alone in the world." 

He reached out, taking Tintin's hand in his own, larger one. "My boy, if you will only agree to be our son and heir, we will love you as well as if you had been born to us."

Mutely Tintin gripped the King’s hand. Until the age of seven he had lived with the dream that some kindly stranger, or couple of strangers, would visit the orphanage and immediately decide that he was the child for them. 

The dream had been dear to him, something to hang on to in the dark of the boys’ dormitory. It had lasted until the day he had begun to listen, really listen to the what the visiting adults had to say about him. 

Some made no pretence of hiding their opinions. Others spoke in stage whispers but might as well have shouted. 

"Not the redhead. Funny looking little thing, don't you think?" 

"Look, he's a good head shorter than the other boys." 

He had coped by resolving to someday, somehow make his own way in the world. Now the dream he had given up was being offered to him on a golden platter, and that platter was etched with the golden pelican of the House Ottokar.

At last he found a voice. "Snowy . . . "

"But of course, Snowy is welcome!" Muskar rose, grasping Tintin's other hand and pulling him upright. "You can have a dozen dogs if you want them, a hundred!" 

Tintin's throat ached. "You can't possibly . . . Can't possibly want . . . " 

He slipped his hands from Muskar’s, covering his eyes. The next instant the King had gathered him in. He cupped the back of Tintin’s head with one hand, holding his wet face to the front of the royal tunic while, with the other, he rubbed and rubbed his back. 

# # # #

Think of all the good you can do. 

Of course, being a prince would mean an awful lot of work. Tintin was shockingly ignorant of the source of Syldavia’s wealth, and of its natural resources. He couldn’t speak the language and all he knew of the country’s history was what he’d read in the travel brochure. 

“Sit here! Next to me!” Josef demanded as soon as Tintin entered the breakfast parlor. 

“A more gentlemanly tone of voice there, Josef,” the Queen told him. “You have the manners of a billy goat.” She gave Tintin the lightest of embraces, then held him at arms length. Eyes twinkling, she took in his new boots, jodhpurs and tunic. The tunic had a black mandarin collar and embroidery, not all that different from the one the King habitually wore except that Tintin’s was a deep blue. 

“Much better. You do wash up well.”

Tintin had emerged from his morning bath to find a distinguished-looking old gentleman's gentleman stocking his wardrobe with everything from tennis whites to formal wear. He had investigated, finding drawer after drawer filled with shirts, stockings and undershorts. The undershorts, he had noted with amusement, were silk. 

Josef was less interested in Tintin's new clothes than with having a big brother to play with. He brimmed with plans, so many he couldn’t decide which to do first: Hold a circus, with Snowy playing the part of the lion, expand the train layout or play Red Indians.

"We can both be chiefs," he offered generously. "We'll have warring tribes, or we'll join forces and massacre the white settlers." 

"Massacre the settlers, and do save a bloody scalp for me." Muskar arrived, sat down and reached for his coffee. There were only the four of them at table, with a like number of servants. “I made a call to Katriot, the relative I spoke of, Tintin, to personally inform him of our decision to adopt.”

He turned to the Queen. “My dear, I know we agreed to keep it as quiet as possible until the legalities could be taken care of, but it wouldn’t do to have him learn about it at second hand. He was gracious enough, but regrets that the press of business keeps him from congratulating us in person and meeting his future sovereign.”

"Oh, the 'press of business?' Might that be the business of playing cards, or of betting on the races?" The Queen turned to Tintin. “Dear Tintin, please excuse my being so blunt. It’s something in which I rarely indulge, and then only within the family.” 

Josef regarded his pastry. "I like Nanny Luleh's better. They have cherries," he announced to the table at large. A thought occurred to him. "Papa, Tintin doesn't have any toys or a pony or anything." 

"We can’t have that," said Muskar. "I just bought a particularly nice young hack, so we can at least see you properly mounted. We'll get you a couple of hunters presently. Do you play polo? No? Well, we can fix that."

"Majesty . . . "

"Father, or Papa, when it's just the family." 

"Yes, Your . . . Papa," Tintin said shyly. "I don't think I'll have much time for play. For starters, I'll need to learn the language. And with your permission, I’d like to join Thomson and Thompson in their search for more conspirators.” 

"Indulge your Papa, Tintin. He's looking for any excuse to buy more horses," said the Queen. She took a sip of coffee and a waiter immediately stepped forward and topped it off for her. 

Muskar grinned. "Guilty as charged. But Tintin, hunting criminals is hardly your job. Not anymore, that is. And I certainly cannot give permission to anything that might compromise your safety.” 

Tintin found the hand holding his coffee cup frozen in midair, halfway between his lips and the table. He had asked purely as a courtesy. It came as a shock, being told no in such uncertain terms. 

Muskar continued. “Now, you’ve been working non-stop for God knows how long. I really must insist you relax and enjoy yourself, at least for a couple of days. Wouldn’t you like to try out your new horse?" 

Tintin didn’t know how to say no without sounding ungrateful. Besides, the truth was that he loved horses. A half-hour later he found himself at the royal stables. Snowy put his nose to the ground, growling and turning in excited circles. Where there are horses there will be rats.

Yet standing there, wondering what the promised hack, his very own, would look like he felt . . . lost. He was no longer a detective, not even an amateur one. Soon he wouldn’t even be a reporter. 

No, he told himself firmly, you’ll be a son, the privileged scion of a royal house. For once in your life you’ll be a boy with the cares and concerns of a boy: Studies, sports, maybe even a friend or two your own age. 

The scrape of boots and the pawing of hooves heralded the arrival of a groom with a flashy, high-stepping chestnut in tow. Tall as a Thoroughbred, she had the beautiful, slightly dished face of an Arab. 

She was fractious, dancing sideways as the groom attempted to shorten the stirrups. If this was the young hack Muskar intended for him, Tintin thought, then Syldavian princes must be held to a high standard of horsemanship indeed. 

"Here you are, Sir Tintin. That way"--he indicated a path away from Klow, into the foothills--"lies the Village Pregat. A very pretty ride. " 

The chestnut let loose with a flying kick. 

"She seems a bit fresh," Tintin said uncertainly. 

The groom merely grunted, gesturing that Tintin should give him his leg. 

Tintin tried delaying things just a bit more by asking, “What’s her name?”

The groom took hold of his booted foot and boosted him up onto her back. “Beatrice.” 

As soon as his seat touched the saddle, Beatrice launched herself skyward. When she touched down he was ready, turning her in a tight circle. Once he had her pointed in the right direction he gave her her head and let her go.

She galloped from the palace grounds as though her feet were on fire. Snowy disappeared in a cloud of dust. The dirt track widened into a neat, cobblestoned roadway. It took a good fix or six kilometers before she slowed to less than the speed of a bullet. 

By then the village was in sight. Ahead of him lay a picturesque square, bordered by an ancient mosque, tumbledown rock wall and an inn. The buildings were whitewashed, their roofs of red tile, their wooden doors painted the traditional bright blue. The inn's double doors stood open, exhaling the scents of baking bread and roasting meat. 

He reined in the mare with difficulty. Before he could dismount he was accosted by an urchin of seven or eight. "Hold your horse for you, Sir Tintin?" The boy asked breathlessly. 

As though anyone without an elephant hook could hold this horse. He opened his mouth to decline when a little, red-faced girl planted herself firmly in his way and held up an apple. 

"The boy doesn't want your apple, Kaltrina, you already took a bite out of it," a woman with a basket of fruit on her arm scolded. She took a second look and her mouth dropped open. "Sir Tintin!" 

She blushed, her face turning as red as the girl's. She dropped an awkward curtsy, rose, smiled . . . and suddenly thrust the entire basket into his arms. He clutched at it, inadvertently tightening the reins. Beatrice objected in the strongest possible terms, fighting the bit. 

A pair of rough-looking men stopped to stare. A young boy elbowed another, uttering, "Sir Tintin!" in tones of awe. An elderly shepherd detoured towards them, leaving his charges to loiter, bleating, in the road. 

"Sir Tintin! Sir Tintin!" Villager after villager joined what was rapidly becoming a mob. A sheep trod on a man's foot. Kaltrina shrieked as another one plucked the bitten apple from her hand. Snowy caught up to them and began to bark, adding to the general pandemonium. 

"Sir Tintin! To your very good health!” one man slurred, hoisting an earthenware jug in both hands. He must have started drinking the moment the sun rose, Tintin thought distractedly, his hands full with the basket and the mare. Either that or he'd made a night of it. 

"Have a drink o' this! Finest Syldavian rakia!" The drunkard lurched toward him, jug held high. Then, abruptly, his gait steadied. He tossed the jug aside, now moving with deadly purpose. He seized Beatrice’s bridle with one hand, raising the other high. 

Tintin caught the gleam of gold, the glint of cold steel: A dagger. With no time to think, Tintin dug his boot heels into Beatrice’s sides. He hauled back on the reins at the same time. The mare reared, pawing at the sky. Men and women alike screamed, throwing themselves out of the way of her hooves. 

Tintin's attacker was lifted off his feet. He flung his knife hand out for balance and the blade buried itself in Beatrice’s shoulder. She screamed, lurching violently to one side. Thrown completely off balance, Tintin was unprepared when she plunged in an entirely new direction and sent him flying. 

He hit the ground hard. The back of his head did a drumroll on the cobblestones, turning the world into a blur. He fought to stay conscious, the horseman in him screaming don't let go of the reins don't let go don't as the mare fought free of the crowd. 

The next instant he was being dragged at full speed. Gravel sprayed his face. Rocks slashed open his clothing, dug into his flesh. 

Beatrice slowed, staggering. With a groan, she sank to the ground 

A familiar little tongue lap-lap-lapped at his face. Snowy. But it was another groan from his horse that got him moving again. The entire left side of his new tunic was in tatters, the sleeve attached by only a few threads. He shrugged the whole thing off and let it fall. 

His left shoulder, ribs and thigh throbbed painfully. Only then did he realize that he was bleeding. His undershirt and pants hung in shreds. Gaps in the fabric showed him skin the color of raw hamburger. It was studded with shards of gravel from the road. 

But his first concern was Beatrice. He tore a fluttering scrap of undershirt free, pressing it against her shoulder. The bleeding was already beginning to slow. He spoke to her in a coaxing tone until she gathered herself and stood. 

A minute or two later and he heard shouting in Syldavian, accompanied by the sound of running feet. By the time the first of the villagers arrived, she was able to put her ears back and bare her teeth.

He scanned the faces in the crowd. "Where is the man who attacked me? Did anyone see which direction he went?" 

This caused a babble of excitement but unfortunately, no two people could agree on precisely which direction the man had fled. He seemed to have gotten away clean. 

Four or five children, including the little girl and the boy who had offered to hold his horse squeezed their way through the adults. "Show Sir Tintin what you found, Kaltrina," the boy instructed. 

Shyly she held out the jug the assassin had thrown aside. It was cracked and leaking fluid. There was, however, enough left to fill his palm. Tintin sniffed, then put out his tongue and tasted it. It was plumy and smooth, clearly not the home brew a poor villager might be expected to drink. 

He wondered where Snowy had gotten to. He also realized that most of the women in the crowd were looking up, down, around, anywhere but directly at him. A girl his own age peeked through her fingers, then looked away, giggling. 

Of course. With his clothing in shreds his scrapes, bruises and God only knew what else were in full view. 

Beatrice swiveled both ears forward and then Tintin could hear it, too: The growl of an engine. The King's sleek black car pulled up. Snowy burst from it, closely followed by Muskar and a Captain of the Guard.

"Tintin! What in the world happened?" The King gripped his shoulders. “St. Vladmir, look at you!" 

"A man, he tried to kill me. He had a knife. What I can't understand is . . ." 

"This man, what did he look like?" Muskar interrupted him. 

"He was, er, dark-skinned. With a beard." Congratulations, Tintin, he told himself sourly, you just described half the country's adult population. Normally he would have had a wealth of vital details to offer but at the time, his attention had been divided. Probably just what the would-be assassin had planned on. 

"Your Majesty, to judge from the wound, there was poison on the knife blade," reported the Captain. "An old Bordurian battle tactic. Normally the slightest cut would mean death but the dose was meant for a human." 

The King glanced over. "Good God! What idiot put him up on that hellion?" 

"Oh." Tintin was relieved. So this wasn't the horse Muskar intended for him. "I thought she was a bit of a handful." 

The King shot a look toward the gaping crowd, then took off his own coat and wrapped it around Tintin. It was much too large but served to protect whatever might be left of his modesty. 

Tintin began to laugh. Muskar shared a look with the Captain. "He might have a concussion. We'll have Josef's physician examine him." 

"I beg your pardon, Majesty," Tintin said, still laughing. "It's just that out of the entire outfit, only the silken unmentionables survived intact!"

# # # #

The palace infirmary was a tidy affair of clinical green walls and immaculate metal surfaces. Tintin gritted his teeth as he lay face down in nothing but shorts, allowing a rail-thin doctor with a cadaverous face to pick gravel out of his scrapes. Each tiny piece of grit went into an enamel basin: Plink! Plink! Plink!

The road had acted like a cheese grater, peeling the skin from the left side of his back, ribs and thigh. Each time Doctor Bergovic plied his tweezers Tintin felt a fresh twinge. Just when he began to hope that he was done, Bergovic swabbed him down with something that stung so much it made his eyes water. 

“Gently, Doctor!” the King ordered. "Captain Zhepi, I want you to talk to every last witness. Find out if anyone knows the man who did this, or has ever seen him before. How in the world did he know Tintin was going to be at the inn when Tintin didn't know himself?"

"Perhaps this was a crime of opportunity," the Captain mused. "Fueled by alcohol and committed by a lone Bordurian fanatic who's just not ready to abandon the cause." 

"If he's a Bordurian fanatic," Tintin said through clenched teeth, "then he has expensive tastes and can afford to indulge them. The handle of his dagger looked like real gold." There was something else about that dagger, something he couldn't quite remember . . . 

"Yes, but why go after Tintin? Purely out of revenge?" 

"The groom was the one who suggested I ride into Pregat," Tintin said, considering.

"And who gave you that mankiller to ride." The King was already moving, Zhepi hard on his heels. "To the stables. Not you, Tintin."

"But, Sire . . ."

"Stay here, where Doctor Bergovic can keep an eye on you." 

On fire to know what they might find Tintin stood, staring at the clinic door until the doctor cleared his throat. He handed him a pair of folded, institutional pajamas, then looked meaningfully at the row of beds with which the clinic was equipped. 

Tintin donned the pajamas and climbed into bed. Ten long, tense minutes passed before the phone rang. It was the doctor who picked it up but Tintin, listening in, gathered that Muskar and Captain Zhepi had reached the stables only to find the groom long gone. 

Tintin sighed and took inventory of what little information he had. The groom had put him up on a horse known to be dangerous, perhaps hoping that that by itself might kill him. He had suggested the ride into Pregat and must also have alerted the would-be assassin that Tintin was on his way. 

That meant that the assassin had access to a phone or perhaps a radio, something the typical, country-cousin Syldavian didn't possess. He had also pretended to be drunk but his liquor of choice was beyond the pocketbook of any but the most privileged. 

And that dagger. There was something . . . Tintin closed his eyes and concentrated. The glint of steel, the gleam of gold, the shape . . . of a fish! A fish with a distinctive, wedge-shaped head making up the handle. 

Why a fish? For the same reason the King's ceremonial sword bore the Black Pelican: It had to be a heraldic motif. Belonging to a particular Bordurian lord, perhaps? He needed to do some research and surely the palace would have a library. 

Acting on the premise that it is better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission, he simply waited until the doctor's back was turned before slipping out of bed and walking out the door. The few servants he met on the way looked on, politely expressionless as he traipsed by in nothing but pajamas. 

First stop: His bedroom and a set of new clothes. His wounds had continued to seep even after being bandaged. Peeling off his pajamas, no matter how slowly and carefully, was a painful operation. 

"Ahem." The elderly gentleman's gentleman he had met that morning appeared in the doorway. He bowed.

"Stafa, Sir Tintin. Your valet. Please allow me to assist you." 

Tintin hestitated. At the orphanage, the sisters had done everything in their power to instill him with shame at the human body in general and his own in particular. But since several people had already seen most of it, he decided to let the man do his job. A good choice, as it turned out. Stafa eased him into black gabardine trousers and airy silk shirt with so light a touch that Tintin felt nary a twinge. 

Stafa also showed him the way to the library. It was a high-ceilinged series of rooms hung with tapestries and furnished with wide glass display cases full of illuminated manuscripts, ancient weapons and American Indian artifacts. 

And of course, books. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of them filled the air with the intoxicating scents of paper and vellum, all Tintin’s favorite smells. But it was time to get to work. First he located a shelf given over to zoology texts and looked at pictures of fish until he found one that resembled the knife's handle: A strugeon. 

Of course, he thought. Sturgeon were prized throughout the Balkans, and were large and fierce-looking enough to hold their own amid the bears, eagles and other beasts so valued in European heraldry. Next he located a Bordurian peerage, but it proved to be disappointing. He scanned crest after family crest without spotting a fish of any kind. 

"Your valet said I would find you here." Tintin looked up to find Muskar, his face like stone, mouth a hard, thin line. Stafa was right behind him, along with Captain Zhepi. "How dare you leave the infirmary when I told you to stay?"

Muskar's tone surprised him. "I'm sorry Pa . . . Your Majesty. But I just remembered that the handle of the dagger was topped with a fish's head. A golden sturgeon. I thought it might be a heraldic symbol, maybe one belonging to a Bordurian lord." 

The King ignored this. "Has it occurred to you that, since someone has already made one attempt on your life, your mother and I might be sick with worry upon finding you'd vanished into thin air?" 

"Surely not sick . . ." Tintin stopped. Of course, any good parent would feel the same. "I'm terribly sorry, Sire. Has the Queen been reassured that I'm alive and well?" 

"Your Majesty." Stafa and Zhepi spoke at almost the same instant. They exchanged a look and the Captain took over. "Surely Majesty, Sir Tintin’s injuries must preclude any thought of physical punishment." 

"Actually, his backside is one of the few areas that escaped injury,” Muskar said dryly. “But whatever the two of you think of me, I am not inclined to beat a boy who’s already hurt." 

It took a second for the King's meaning to sink in. Aghast, Tintin said, "You were going to whip me? But Sire, I’m . . .” 

He trailed off. An adult was what he’d planned on saying. It was not, of course, technically correct but he’d been his own man, so to speak, for several years now. It was a fresh shock to realize that Muskar viewed him as a child, and felt entitled to treat him like one. 

Tintin looked down. The King waited a moment, then sighed. Addressing the Captain, he said, ”From now on I want two of your men to accompany Sir Tintin at all times, until we can be absolutely sure that the threat to him has passed.” 

He turned back to Tintin “And that, my boy, is a precaution, not a punishment. I’m not giving you a hiding today and I trust that in future, it will be an infrequent occurrence.” 

He smacked Tintin lightly across the seat of his pants, then laid an arm across his shoulders. “Now, tell me about this sturgeon of yours.” 

# # # #

Muskar knew of no Bordurian house whose crest bore a sturgeon or indeed, a fish of any kind. Colonel Boris was a most minor aristocrat but his ensign was a boar. 

Who else but a Bordurian national would want Tintin dead? Clearly Katriot, the King’s distant relative and previous, most likely heir to the throne, had the most to lose. 

“But he always was a squeamish one,” Muskar mused. “He was never much for hunting or fishing. I doubt he’d be up to murder.” 

“Does he have children? A son of legal age?” Tintin wanted to know. 

“No, he’s a widower. The marriage produced no offspring, no one with a right to what’s left of his position.” Nevertheless, he set the Thompsons to following him, not a difficult task as Katriot promptly succumbed to a cold that kept him housebound. 

From then on two imposing Guards followed Tintin everywhere he went. Or almost everywhere. Stafa, his valet, stoutly refused them entry to the bathroom where Tintin underwent his morning ablutions. Doctor Begovic had told him sternly that he was not to get his scrapes wet but the water, hot enough to steep tea and fragrant with an herb Stafa insisted had healing properties, was wonderfully soothing. 

He did feel a twinge of dismay when he saw that he’d left both blood and skin on the bath towel. But Stafa’s concern was only for Tintin’s comfort and he deftly re-bandaged him before helping him dress. Today’s uniform was the full kit of a Knight of the Golden Pelican: Navy jodphurs with green and gold piping with a short jacket to match. . 

The King’s two dour attorneys joined the family for a breakfast meeting that was so solemn as to cost Tintin his appetite. He learned that he was to receive a new name, as well as a title befitting his entry into the royal house. 

“We thought perhaps that ‘Konstantin’ would fit you,” Muskar told him. “It’s a very old, ancestral name but it does sound as if ‘Tintin’ could be the diminutive.”

“Of course, we’ll still call you ‘Tintin’ when it’s just the family,” Queen Geraldine reassured him. 

One of the lawyers nodded and made a note on his legal pad. “Konstantin Eduart Muskar Dritan,” he said approvingly, “Duke of Wolftrip and Knight of the Order of the Golden Pelican.” 

“Eduart, yuck,” said Josef. “I know a boy named Eduart. He picks his nose.”

The lawyer chose to ignore the interruption. “Naturally as you grow, you will receive additional titles and the properties that go with them. But two will do for a boy your age. I think you’ll like Wolftrip, the estate is quite spacious.” 

“The furnishings aren’t much to look at,” the Queen said thoughtfully. “But you can see to that after your marriage. Or perhaps before, if your fiancée any flair at all for interior decoration.”

Good God, Tintin thought. He hoped he didn’t sound as plaintive to Their Majesties as he did to his own ears as he asked, “I won’t . . . That is, you’re not planning on betrothing me for a while yet?” 

The King laughed. “Goodness, how Medieval you must think us! Josef, do cover your mouth when you yawn.”

“There’s no reason for the princes to be here,” the second lawyer said with false heartiness. “I’m sure there are a million things they would rather be doing.”

Tintin was both relieved and disappointed to be excused. He could no longer put off giving notice to Le Soir. He was mentally outlining his letter of resignation when Josef seized his hand and pulled him in the direction of his playroom. 

“Please, please play Red Indians with me,” he begged. “Papa’s going to hire a whole raft of tutors for you and then we’ll never, ever get the chance.”

And so it was that both boys ended up in Josef’s playroom, stripped to the waist and sporting “war paint” provided by a set of watercolors. They divided Josef’s collection of Indians into two tribes who first fought a battle, then banded together to attack a group of painted lead cowboys. 

At first the two Guards seemed intent on remaining silent while on duty. But after Josef asked the younger of the two for tactical advice, both joined in with a number of suggestions regarding ambushes and the treatment of paleface captives. 

Josef, with a fine disregard for historical accuracy, had just introduced a U-boat outfitted with tiny torpedoes into the scenario when Nanny Luleh arrived with a plate of her signature pastries. 

She raised an eyebrow at the pair of them and Tintin blushed. Although quite strong for someone of his size and build, he had yet to outgrow his coltishness. His shoulders were narrow, his chest thin. Certainly anyone sizing him up would see an adolescent and not a man.

“Don’t worry, I made enough for everyone,” she told them, setting the pastries down. “There’s tea, too.” 

At a nod from Tintin they helped themselves. While each of his Guards happily ate two apiece, he took only one and consumed it with the small, polite bites he imagined were expected of a prince. They were as good as Josef had said they were, plump with black cherries that seemed to have been stewed in brandy. 

Luleh was refilling their cups with tea when he noticed that she alone was abstaining. 

“Surely you’ll join us?” he asked politely. His imperfect grasp of such things told him that while she was technically a servant, she was of a superior sort that could certainly sit and relax in his and Josef’s presence. 

Her smile widened but it was directed not at him, but to the younger and handsomer of his Guards. Tintin looked in the same direction. The man’s eyes were wide but unfocused. He swallowed spasmodically, once, twice. A ribbon of drool flowed from slackened jaws and he sank to the ground. 

The other Guard lurched towards his companion, made as if to kneel, then collapsed face first onto the carpet. He began thrashing, arms and legs moving ineffectively. It looked exactly as if he were trying to swim on dry land, while his colleague only lay there, trembling in every limb, eyes wide but unseeing. 

Tintin clambered to his feet, only to find his legs as weak as broom straws. His fingers abruptly stopped following instructions and let his teacup fall. It hit the rug with a muted thunk! The next second his legs gave out completely, spilling him to the floor. 

The muscles along his spine contracted, twisting his back into a painful arc. His diaphragm seized and he sucked raggedly at the air, thrashing like a fresh-caught fish. All the colors in the room melted together, then went completely and utterly black.

The next thing he knew with any clarity was that Josef was screaming, “No-no-no-NO!” seemingly right into his ear.

“For God’s sake, let him keep it,” someone snapped. “Anything to shut the brat up.” The voice sounded like Luleh’s. 

Josef swam into sight next to him, clutching his toy U-boat to his bare chest and staring at her, his mouth a perfect 0 of shock. Looking around, Tintin felt his eyes widen. Next to her stood the drunkard who had tried to knife him to death. By his side was the escaped groom. 

They appeared to be in a private residence, once grand but now rather forlorn. Tintin found that he was half-lying, still shirtless, on a couch whose velvet upholstery was worn to an anemic pink. Underfoot was an oriental rug, once beautiful but now so threadbare that the oak flooring showed through. Several large, bare patches of wallpaper indicated where paintings had been removed, most likely so they could be sold by an owner who had clearly fallen on hard times. 

“My God Luleh, what have you done?” said a new voice, hoarse with shock. Tintin twisted his head around to find it came from an aging gentleman with thinning hair who now stood, stock still, in the entryway. Katriot. 

“What was necessary,” Luleh said crisply, her fingers busy with the broach she was pinning to her breast. It was a golden sturgeon, a perfect match to the hilt of the dagger that had been meant for Tintin. “The man I fell in love with was wealthy. He was heir to the throne of Syldavia. And shortly, you will be again.” 

“My dear, I know we discussed this but surely . . . surely you don’t expect me to, to . . . “ Katriot looked sick to his stomach, yet he made no move for the nearby telephone. 

Muskar had said Katriot was squeamish. But to judge by the way the drunkard and the groom were eyeing the two boys, they were more than willing to do any wet work Luleh required. 

“So Josef doesn’t have epilepsy.” Tintin said quietly. He was beginning to put it all together. “You made your signature pastries with devils cherries: Deadly nightshade. It was brandy, cherry brandy that made them so sweet.” 

That’s what had caused the seizures. Katriot may have wanted Josef out of the way so he could someday inherit the throne, but it was Luleh who had acted on it. And when the King had decided to adopt Tintin and make him the heir, she had seen all her plans going to ruin. 

Beside him, Josef let out a wail. “Luleh, I thought you were nice! You’re not nice at all! You’re a witch! A wicked, wicked witch!” 

In an instant she stood over them, face contorted with rage, hand raised to strike. She brought it down, aiming for Josef’s face. Smack!—Tintin seized it with his own, instinctively giving her wrist a painful twist. 

“Oh, now you’re going to get it. Vasil, Skender.” The two men grabbed him by the arms and hauled him to his feet. Luleh seized a heavy walking stick in one hand, reaching for the bandage on his back with the other. 

Rrriiippp!!!—She tore it off. Before he could steel himself she clubbed him across the back. His scrapes blazed to painful life. He choked back a cry, clenching his teeth against what was to come. 

She hit him again, the cane searing his shoulders like a branding iron. And again. And again. Desperate not to cry out, he began to count the blows. Three. Four. Five. Six. The pain ballooned, swelling and swelling until it seemed he must burst with it. 

Crack!—The cane caught the back of his head, staggering him. Seven. It landed squarely across his kidneys and he sank to the floor, mouth open in a soundless wail of pure agony. He forgot to count as the two thugs pulled him upright and Luleh hit him again. This time a scream tore itself out of his throat.

“My dear, he’s only a boy! You don’t have to be so rough with him,” Katriot cried out. 

“You’re quite right.” Luleh’s tone was perfectly controlled. Businesslike, even. She must have made some signal because the two thugs let go his arms. He landed on his knees on the threadbare carpet, bent double and sobbing. His cheeks felt slick. The back of his throat was prickly with the taste of salt and copper. 

Josef let out a shriek. Tintin blinked hard, desperate to clear his vision. The groom—Skender?-- had seized him with one hand and was bringing his gun to bear with the other. The toy U-boat hit the floor, bounced and skidded. 

It slid right towards Tintin. Still on his knees, he launched himself towards it. He scrabbled madly with both hands, snatching it up and taking desperate aim. The first tiny torpedo hit Skender high on the cheekbone. The second got him squarely in the eye. 

The groom yelped in pain, dropping his gun and clapping his hands over his face. 

That’s when the drunkard, Vasil, dove for the loose pistol. Tintin dropped low and rolled, getting to it first and firing. The bullet took out Vasil’s knee and he hit the floor, screaming. 

Tintin scooped up that gun, too. He pointed one at the groom and the other into Luleh’s face. 

“Call the palace,” he ordered Katriot, his throat raw. “Or I shoot.” 

“NO!” Luleh shrieked in horror. 

“Don’t!” Katriot’s face went ashen as he scrambled for the phone, barking his shin on a table leg and nearly dropping the receiver in his haste to dial. “Whatever you do, don’t hurt her!” 

“Josef, come here. Get behind me.” The prince ran to him, throwing his arms around Tintin’s waist and inadvertently sending a fresh blaze of pain across his back. He peered out from under one arm as Katriot hung up the phone. 

Tintin put him to work tying up Luleh and his other co-conspirators. By then Tintin could hear the throaty roar of several vehicles, pierced by Snowy’s persistent barking. 

Captain Zhepi and his guards flooded the house, followed closely by the Thompsons. Last to enter was Muskar, fully armed.

“Papa!” Josef let go of Tintin’s waist and flung himself at his father. Muskar snatched him up, hugging him for dear life. Relieved to let others take over, Tintin groped for a chair, sinking into it and slumping forward, head on his knees. The next instant his lap was full of wriggling white dog. 

“St. Vladmir, what a boy you are.” Muskar’s large, gentle hand cupped his chin, raising Tintin’s eyes to meet his own. “Just tell me which of those beasts did this to you and I guarantee they’ll never see the light of day again. But first—“

The King held a glass to Tinin’s lips. Water, thinly laced with whisky. “I know you’re a bit young but drink it down, just this once. We’ll get both of you to the doctor right away.” 

“Not Dr. Bergovic,” Tintin said hoarsly. “He’s either on Katriot’s payroll or he’s simply a quack who actually believes that Josef is an epileptic.” 

“What are you saying? Josef has seizures, you’ve seen them yourself.” 

“Yes, Sire but then four of us—me, Josef and my bodyguards—had seizures today.” The liquor wasn’t doing as much for his pain as he’d hoped. It was, however, making him a little sick. He tried talking faster, hoping to make his point before he fainted, or did something equally undignified. “You’ll find that they were brought on by the deadly nightshade in the pastries Luleh’s been baking him for the past two years.” 

He neither fainted nor vomited and walked to the King’s car with no more than Muskar’s steadying arm to help him. Back at the palace, he fought being put to bed until he was sure Muskar had taken in the enormity of his news: Josef was not epileptic, he would not die, there was no reason he couldn’t grow up to become the next ruler of Syldavia. 

He was prepared to dislike Doctor Misto as much as he had Bergovic, But the man surprised him with a bedside manner that was as compassionate as it was practical. Misto apologized for the discomfort to come before sinking a needle into him. He then proceeded to spray his back with a numbing solution before cleaning and bandaging his wounds, new and old. 

The painkillers he gave him must have combined with the whiskey to produce a sedative effect, because Tintin fell asleep on the exam table. He awoke in his bedroom at the palace to Snowy’s damp nose and warm breath tickling his face. The clock read half past eight. 

In the background he heard Muskar, reading aloud to Josef. “Until one night I felt I was Bagheera, the panther, and no man’s plaything, and I broke the silly lock with one blow of my paw and came away.” 

“Papa! He’s awake!” Josef squealed. He clambered onto the bed. 

“Josef, don’t jump on him, he’ll be sore.” Muskar laid The Jungle Books to one side. “How do you feel, Tintin?”

“I’m fi—“ he said automatically, shoving back the covers. Pain lanced his shoulders and he snapped his mouth shut against a cry. 

“No, no, lie back.” Muskar took him carefully by the arms and eased him into a sitting position against the pillows. He opened a small bottle and shook two pills into his hand. “The doctor left some painkillers. Here.” 

Tintin swallowed them with a glass of water. “And how are you, Josef?” 

“Dr. Mistro doesn’t think there will be any lasting harm.” Muskar leaned over to squeeze both Tintin’s hands, hard. “Her Majesty and I, we, well, we can’t think of words enough to thank you.” 

“Tell me, what is to become of Luleh and Katriot? And who is she, when she’s not masquerading as a nanny?”

“You must be hungry,” Muskar said, abruptly changing the subject. “Josef, please run down to the kitchen and tell Cook to make Tintin something to eat.” 

Tintin understood. It was best that Josef hear no details. As soon as he had scampered from the room the King continued. “Luleh’s no Bordurion but then, you figured that out. She’s Albanian and apparently she and Katriot married secretly several years ago. I’m not sure at what point they hatched the plan to poison Josef with nightshade berries but I’d guess it was about the same time his gambling got out of hand.” 

“Albanian?”

“Yes, and of a highly respected, if impoverished, old family. By the way, the sturgeon figures prominently in their crest. Katriot will be tried for high treason, and they’re each facing counts of kidnapping, torture and attempted murder.” 

The King made no reference to their likely sentences: Death. Nor did Tintin ask. It wasn’t in him to hold grudges but Luleh had showed him and Josef all the mercy of a rabid dog and Katriot had gone along with it

Instead he said quietly, “I am a little sore, still. If you agree, I would like to give it a day or two before I return to Brussels.” 

Equally quietly, the King said, “You think because I have my youngest son back and fit to rule that I would forget about you, Tintin? When you are the one who saved him and his birthright?“

“I appreciate that, Sire, but you know I’ll only be in the way. I can hardly be your eldest and yet not succeed to the throne.”

“I’ll make you my ward. You’ll be my son in everything but name.” 

Tintin closed his eyes. Remember this, he told himself. Remember: You were wanted. A King wanted you. 

“Tintin?”

“I’m fine, Your Majesty. It’s good to be wanted but you could never allow a ward of yours to go chasing around the world in pursuit of a story. And I can’t give it up, it’s just not in my nature. I’m—“ Tintin paused, groping for the words. 

“An adult,” Muskar said quietly. “That was what you were going to say yesterday, when I so cavalierly spoke of whipping you. Am I right?”

“I know it sounds nonsensical, Sire, but--” 

“Not to me. Not anymore.” The King’s eyes met his. “You may not have attained your full growth. You may not be fully autonomous in the eyes of the law. But I know you to be one of the most courageous men it has ever been my privilege to meet.” 

Josef did not take the news that Tintin was leaving well. He clung to him, wailing, “You can’t go! You’re my brother!” 

He calmed down somewhat when Muskar presented him with his first pony, a fat black Shetland. Riding and other strenuous exercise had been forbidden while it was thought that he was epileptic. King, prince and knight rode out together, with Tintin atop the big, kindly bay stallion Muskar had once meant to be his. 

“I can’t help but think you might get some excellent colts if you put him in with Beatrice,” Tintin remarked. 

“I’m way ahead of you, my boy,” Muskar replied. “She’s already with foal.” 

On the day of his departure, Tintin quietly dug his old jacket and plus-fours out of the closet. Stafa insisted on dressing him once last time and when he put them on they felt subtly different. The old valet had had them copied in a fine English tweed and replaced Tintin’s old shoes with new ones of calfskin leather. 

He carried both his old suitcase and his portable typewriter, so it was up to one of the Thompsons to accept the heavy box presented to him as one of Muskar’s last presents: A beautiful, streamlined new Remington, direct from America. 

It was only when he was on the plane descending towards Belgium that he discovered the lump in his pocket. Josef too had left him a gift. Wrapped in a clean handkerchief embroidered with the Black Pelican was a little lead Indian brave. Josef had used his paint set to change its braids from black to ginger. 

Tintin smiled. It actually looked quite a lot like him.


End file.
